It ends here
by Maulbane
Summary: People die.


In Feralas, a bird of indeterminate species cries out. A wolf cub yelps harshly as it is bitten by a more powerful sibling, and a hippogryph soars. And death happens. It occurs at a rate completely expected, almost as if the entire concept was inveterate and stalwart.

[center][b]And it is.[/b][/center]

Death is not the most powerful force in the world; it is the most predictable, the most coordinated, and its patience is only second to one, and that is time itself. And it is the most forgiving. Nature and all of its creatures is unpredictable, you can never truly gauge what the bear staring into your eyes will do, only know what it could do. The winds buffet and destroy as the waves methodically bring their force down onto rock walls, like an angry child that knows it will eventually win, some day.

[center][b]But death?[/b][/center]

Death is different. Death is not primal, it is regulated. But it shares a characteristic with other forces - it is everywhere, no matter were you look. It's in the animals, it's in the trees, and it is in you - Even before you are born, it is there, meandering around everything. But, to say it is waiting would be wrong - to say it is waiting is to assume it didn't know exactly when you were going to expire. In that sense it isn't like a vulture either, it has no ravenous desire to end you faster so it may eat, and no malignant beady eyes to terrify you with.

[center][b]It's placid.[/b][/center]

It's the warm feeling in your chest as you choke on your own blood with an arrow in your neck, soothing you, telling you it will all be OK, the pain will end soon. You may struggle, maybe even successfully, but deep down you know that this is meant to happen - every creature has its time. And this is one of the core teachings of the Tauren Hunter. It is this discipline that makes the Tauren some of the greatest and calmest killers in the world - the axiom that death is not a punishment, it is simply a core part of life. That when you release your fingers that were holding an arrow in place, you are not doing anything evil. You are simply completing the circle of life.

Maulbane had been completing the circle of life for seventy years, twenty five thousand days or more of his life dedicated to it. And he had done it flawlessly, to suggest anything else would be insane. He know every region of The Barrens, every animal in Southern Kalimdor, and all of their different kinds of hides and how to cure them. Recently he had gone to Feralas, and as always there was a reason behind it. He believed that he was being plagued by the creatures he had killed. This turned out to be false. But it sent him on a different path, one that would take years to attain the benefits of. This didn't worry him, he was prepared for an ardous path. It was more arduous than he thought, though.

An adage you could use here would be something along the lines of "It all lead up to this point", but in truth? It didn't matter what he, or anyone for that matter, did. The end a matter of time, and that was simple enough to understand.

[font=Verdana]In Tirisfal, a ghoul raises its head. A deathstalker sloshes his way through the damp roads, a thin and indignant layer of muck in his way as he trudges, and all among the cacophony of bats chirping. And death is happening, but at a very slow rate.

The Forsaken are the ultimate contradiction. Death is their way of life, and because of this there are three things that an unlucky one can do with their state of existence. The least prevalent is to go mad with the concept that everything that you have ever known is now false, the second is to fall into a deep depression caused by the macabre acts you have commited over time, and the third is seen everywhere, in every Forsaken town and shack. The act of losing the free will you have just gained, the act of becoming completely and unfalteringly autonomous in the name of a "Greater cause". These Forsaken pledge themselves to the service of their "Dark Lady", eager to turn to slaughter and killing in the name of revenge. They are unaware that they have just thrown away the freedom they have just gained, in the name of preserving it.

Lorailis Brashcloud used to be the last one, but at the moment his mind was void as he stared at his own grave. It read in painfully simple text, the surname "Brashcloud" etched hurriedly, and underneath in barely legible, eroding script were the names of his family. Lorailis, Desmond and Helena. Nothing else was on the grave. Looking at the big picture, it was lucky that he lived in Andorhal - The ones in Andorhal died first. Because of that, his family was lucky enough to get one of the few thousand tombstones made before everyone else died.

His family. He traced a finger along his son's name. He had killed him. If Desmond had noticed a few seconds earlier he may have survived. But he was dwelling on the past. He let the withered digit, no longer his own, slide down the rugged stone as his mind wandered into dark thoughts. The thoughts turned to The Cultivators. His soldiers. His men, who had entrusted their lives into his incapable hands. They all died because of him, and he began to feel cold at the realisation. The only people he had ever got close enough to care about, he had managed to kill all of them. The ones who didn't die fled. He shifted from kneeling to sitting, and put his head in his hands. At that point, the only thing Lorailis wanted was for the only friends he had ever had to be alive again. And after a few minutes, a single distrought sigh escapes from his throat.[/font]

In Stormwind, a guard strolls down the street, chin high, as a group of rats follow a dying cat with tenebrous intent. And all the while the gilded lions of the kingdom stare down upon its denizens with an air of protection, the jeweled eyes allaying fear of physical harm, and death, if only temporarily.

The city was beautiful without a doubt, but that beauty was curtailed slightly by the existence of people like Jelme. Though, to be honest, it wasn't all his fault. It's a funny way how a single action can change an entire boy's life, and that is the most true for the little urchin who would later become a killer, and petty thief. It was when he hopped in that caravan heading from Stratholme to Moonbrook that his life rewrote itself, and for the worse. His life was wrought with trouble from then on, starting with the fact that he was now without a mother, and his father figure was an ex-marine, and running through an entire list of problems, including the culling of his family and friends back home, the growing financial problems in Moonbrook, and the murder of the family he made there at the hands of rogue Defias. That was the catalyst. At that point he uprooted himself and went on his merry way. What he did before that is a story you could probably find in the archives of Stormwind's criminal records.

He did eventually get to Silvermoon Forest though, and managed to make some unusual friends. Mostly because they were all dead. A Death Knight, a Warlock, an Apothecary and an eccentric traveller were all his dear, dear acquaintances, and in fact, the only living person he talked to for months he ended up killing. Such is life, but it probably sent his mind spiralling even further down, because when he finally settled back into society he was well and truly mad. Although at first you'd just think he was odd.

These days he lived in Stormwind, gliding along alleys, getting into fights in bars he didn't even know the names of and just managing to stay out of prison through strong leg muscles, but otherwise being completely invisible. He was a vagrant, sleeping in seedy taverns and inns by night, and by day filling everyone's lives with annoyance. But his life was anything but uneventful, to date he had been a hunter of Worgen, to a pirate, to a captain in the Kul Tiras Marine Corps (But got arrested days after being hired), to being one of the heroes who retook the city of Stromgarde. In his addled life he'd done more than most would ever see, but he wouldn't ever appreciate it. Always with the wanderlust.

It's amazing he didn't die earlier in his life, but death must have had some kind of amazing and spectacular way for him to go out. Not true, unless the shit-stained alleys of Stormwind are spectacular and amazing. They're not.

[font=Verdana]Meanwhile, in Feralas, the tranquility of the forests has been disrupted. It was a routine for Maulbane - go up to a high point in the forest, meet with Skoram, go into the dream and train, and go back down before repeating it the next day. He had been improving rapidly, to the point where Skoram Firebloom, Spiritwalker and mentor, had proffessed he would soon be close enough to leave his tutoring and move on. But the routine today was slightly different. Maulbane had gone up to the high point, with the small camp, and had conversed slightly with Skoram before preparing to enter the Emerald Dream. This is, unfortunately, where everything went wrong.

Despite the Spiritwalker's amazing knowledge, they are unable to tell the future. Skoram didn't notice the Gnolls, who had tracked Maulbane up to the elevated encampment, nor did he foretell the bowstrings pulling back. He may have been able to anticipate the vibrations in the air as the bowstring released all of its kinetic energy, but that was far too late to do anything. Skoram Firebloom died at ninety-six years old, half-way through pronouncing the word "improvement", when two arrows punctured his head. Maulbane was prepared for anything - anything except the sudden death of the Tauren he'd been learning from for over half a year, by the hairy digits of one of the least stealthy creatures on Kalimdor. He thought it was a joke for a moment, but when the second arrow wedged itself into his shoulder he suddenly lost his sense of humor.

He had been running for what seemed like a minute, or two minutes. His right arm was streaked with blood, his shoulder expelling huge amounts of the crimson liquid. His heart rate was up, his legs were on fire and it felt like his shoulder was in an extreme state of torsion. He couldn't fight. He counted at least twenty of them, and Goretusk was at home. Probably eating from the scraps again. As his arm burned. The pain in his arms and his legs mingled until his entire body felt like it was being licked with flame, every single inch. He had escaped worse, he wouldn't die. Death was not an option for someone like Maulbane. Maulbane didn't die, he had killed Ancients, he had killed Devilsaur, he had killed hordes of undead the likes some Paladins hadn't even seen. He would never die by the hands of a Gnoll.

His brain raced, it did circles, it looped the loop, again and again and again and again, asking the same questions and throwing more in, a state of panic and bewilderment exacerbating his shock. Had he failed? What had he done wrong? Was it a lapse in judgement? Was it all a hallucination? Were they really Gnolls, or Grimtotem, or Ogres? Was the pain in his arm really there? Was he even alive now, or had he died minutes ago? A black cloud swirled and encircled his mind, but never pervading his thoughts, but still managing to constrict them inside his mind and driving him mad as his questions collided against each-other. Adrenaline had started to pump through his body and kept him running. He lost track of where he was around thirty to forty questions ago.

It was then his hoof caught on a vine. He fell and as he toppled put his right arm in front of himself. He wasn't thinking. When the hit the ground he felt his lapse in judgement, and it felt like charges had gone off in his mind and bones shifted in his shoulder, unable to take the force. He rolled over in pain, and all that did was screw his leg into an unbearably painful postion, and he began to gasp for air.

He was foolish to think he could outrun them. He heard the Gnolls. His mind pulsed and he heard them, because they had seen his tracks, and this time he was the prey. He didn't feel any irony, it was just the way of life. Even the best hunters have lapses in judgement, and they all die some time. But most of all he didn't feel the any irony because he was currently at the pinnacle in terms of excruxiating pain. The Gnolls were closer now, he still heard them among the cacophony in his head, his mind playing an orchestra of sharp edges, blunt instruments and hot pokers, an endless golf clap at his inability to save his own misbegotten hide. He wanted to blame the Gnolls, but they had tracked him perfectly, found flawlessly his place of learning, without fault killed his mentor and sealed his doom.

A trot to his left, a thud to his right, and behind him an canter, they all signalled the Gnolls were next to him and even now his primal instinct to preserve himself urged him on. [i]There are only three of them. You can kill them. You've killed worse. You can save yourself. Get up. Get up. You can still save yourself if you get up, Maulbane, get up now. Get up, get up, get up, get up get up get up[/i] [i][b]getupgetupgetupgetup[/b][/i] - They were just another string of urges and voices in his head, he didn't listen. They talked next to him, he could hear them out of one ear, barking, coarse words, in another tongue, and he saw one lean into his field of view, upside-down. The Gnoll was brandishing a dagger, something Maulbane wished he had.

He felt a feeling wash over him. The complete feeling of completion, that his life was at an end and he had been fulfilled. He felt warm. The black cloud in his mind grew larger, but the blackness was replacing the pain and fear.

[b]"It ends here, Tauren."[/font][/b]

Meanwhile, in Tirisfal, the glades were silent. There was nothing new, but this was a different lack of sound, a more individual one. The glades were silent in Lorailis' mind, he had no time for sound. In one hand he held a fist, bared in silent rage at all of his arrogance, his failings, and the fact that what mere victories he had ever had were at the expense of others. Suddenly, he felt alienated from all of his ideals and his kind. In the other hand, he held a dagger. It was a pretty thing, of completely erratic design, jagged from hilt to tip. It was a dark hue of purple, the shade that he used to wear when he was a Cultivator. He held the dagger close to his face, as he pondered the word. [i]So haughty.[/i] He moved the dagger down, and if his mind were a body it would be pacing and sluggish.

He wondered slowly why he picked that word, but the answer was already there - He thought he was a righteous culler of those who had never done anything to him. The dagger slid thoughtlessly further down, past his shoulders, and he could remember all that he killed. Every single face. The Gnome who they had pinned to a tree with knives and tortured to death, the Draenei couple they ambushed and strung up on the roads of Stromgarde, and the Humans. Oh, the countless Humans. [i]What a large waste,[/i] he mused, as the dagger now ran parallel with his ribcage.

And then he pushed it in, with a prudent amount of energy. It slipped on a rib, and he pushed harder until he heard a crack. [i]Much better.[/i] He wondered absent-mindedly if anybody would ever find his corpse, or even care, as he ripped the dagger down, tearing through his chest and turning his ribs into shards, and brought it back up again, carelessly. It was amazing, his mind was completely placid. His sorrow was gone. He just felt cold. He was doing the right thing, he thought, as he drew the dagger up. The dagger was designed to rip and shred, to destroy bare tissue. He knew, he had used it for a long time.

The dagger withdrew, and plunged again into the pit he had created in his chest. The entire blade was now soaked in his person, a mixture of syrupy, viscous liquid and vague in color. He felt a black cloud surround his mind. It was then that he slowly withdrew the shining dagger from his chest and the resolute and decisive state of mind took over, the calm realisation that he was going to die in a few seconds aided by the mysterious black cloud enveloping his spirit.

It became easy to hold the dagger parallel to his head, but before he did it he apologised to Hargraves, Derack, Jithe, Rosie, Lynn, Sheth, Malika and Payne. And then he suddenly felt something he never thought he would - He felt warm. At peace.

[b]"It ends here."[/b]

[font=verdana]Meanwhile, in Stormwind City, there was always the hustle and bustle of city life, making sure the city was perpetually loud. But that didn't stop Jelme from trying to make it a little louder.

It started in the Pig's Whistle tavern, on the north side of Stormwind. Where else? In this tavern, the majority of the people were Humans and Dwarves. It smelt of disgusting, greasy Dwarvern beer food, and the beer itself, day in and day out. The inn was built in a pretty enough style, but the insides had succumbed to the ways of its customers, somewhat in the way a horrible debilitating cancer would corrupt the innards of a patient, but not the outside, until it was too late to change. Its ways were set, deemed to be a hangout for layabouts, gangs and the occasionally traveller.

One of these layabouts was Jelme Bardolin. He was currently explaining the subtle nuances between stabbing someone and slashing someone with a dagger, and the Dwarf didn't seem very interested at all. The Dwarf was one Bruen Thoriumfist. Of relatively stocky build, and an eyepatch just to make his appearance that more preposterous, he looked like a giant ragged teddy bear, with ripped clothing and patches all over him. He was sitting at a table on his own, until Jelme came and without warning sat next to him. Long story short, Jelme ended up running out of the tavern laughing, with a beer-stained Dwarf following him.

Jelme was now sailing through the alleyways, leaping over barrels and crates, with a Dwarf hot on his heels. Suddenly, he sidestepped to the left, into an alcove. He'd tripped his share of angry Dwarves, but this one took the cake. Patchy, as he started to regard him, went down like a log, and Jelme burst out of the alcove, smirking, and to provide emphasis he exclaimed "Pow!". Then, it turned for the worse.

He watched the Dwarf roll over, that was all fine and good. He chuckled slightly, and THEN it went bad. Pow, indeed.

[i]A gun. A fuckin' gun. NOT FAIR.[/i] Jelme was pissed. He was clutching his side, rolling around and scrambling like a spider, with a bullet in his stomach. He stood up shakingly, after his legs failed twice, and snarled at the Dwarf, who was now smirking. He tipped his head slowly and mouthed the word "Pow". Jelme's eyes widened. That did it. He charged at the stumpy little bastard, and at the last second ripped both of his daggers out of their sheaths, leaping into the air dramatically. It didn't work, though. A battle in its own right occured then, between Jelme's kinetic energy, the momentum from the jump, the helping hand of gravity against the power of a bullet, travelling at roughly three hundred miles an hour. The laws of physics ended up at a stalemate, signing a peace treaty and sending Jelme off at an angle, clattering into a decrepit windowsill and falling face-first to the ground.

He was gasping and wheezing now. But he got up. As his legs shivered and shook as he tried to get his balance the Dwarf remarked "Pow. Never take a knife to a gun fight.". He stood up, two bullets in his chest, and he began to feel weak, but still warm, because of the chemicals urging him on. He stumbled forwards, screaming. Most of it was unintelligible, but at the end there were words. Those words were "You'll never kill Jelme Bardolin!" the Dwarf shook his head, reloading, but his last words were more resonant than his earlier quips.

[b]"It ends here, Jelme Bardolin."[/b]

The third bullet collided with his neck. He began to gurgle blood, and even he knew he was going to die. Even Jelme, the batshit insane rogue. He accepted it because he could feel it, all around him, death itself was calming him, telling him it wasn't his fault, that this was always destined to happen. And suddenly he felt good. Really, really good.[/font][/b]

[font=Estrangelo Edessa]Every day, people wake up in the morning, and every day people go to sleep. Some days people have fights, some other days people fall in love, but every day, death happens and it occurs at a rate completely expected.[/font]


End file.
